


Consequences

by CommonNonsense



Series: Overwatch Ficlets [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: McCree's the first one to find Hanzo, drugged and beaten in the back of the filthy warehouse. He's relieved beyond words--right up until Hanzo kisses him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of Tumblr kiss prompts for this one that ended up going together again. c:
> 
> First one for "a kiss that shouldn't have happened," second one "a desperate kiss."
> 
> And I can't BELIEVE I forgot to put this, but the truly lovely Severeni made a WHOLE-ASS COMIC (???) for the first chapter and it's beautiful and perfect. http://severeni.tumblr.com/post/175639478085/a-kiss-that-shouldnt-have-happened-im-a-slut

Hanzo has been missing for two days.

They know it was a collection of Shimada assassins. They know, because they left a fucking _calling card,_ the smug assholes. Genji says that’s not terribly common, but they were likely feeling proud of themselves for this particular catch.

McCree knows it’s unfair to think he is the most worried on the team just because of his _feelings_ \--everyone on the team is harried and anxious, tension simmering under their skin and hanging thick in the air--but he nonetheless feels as though no one else is taking it seriously enough. Even Genji seems more calm than him.

“He is a highly capable fighter, McCree,” he reminds him with a hand on his shoulder. “He survived over ten years hunted by our family, even going so far as to show up on the property once a year. We will find him.” But even those reassurances ring hollow when McCree sees the way Genji’s fists flex as he walks away.

Through two days of sleepless nights and constant effort, they are able to track Hanzo’s location to a sea of empty warehouses at the edge of Tokyo. He’s in one of four, and McCree knows he’s not thinking right as he tears off down through the nearest dank building in search of their missing teammate but he can’t be bothered to give a damn. Someone yells behind him, and the rest of the team chatters on the comm as they break away to search the next building, but he can hardly hear for the blood rushing in his ears.

He finds Hanzo in a triple-locked storage closet, slumped upright against the wall and unconscious. The relief he feels nearly buckles his knees, and he hits the ground harder than he means when he goes to kneel in front of Hanzo.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “I found him, he’s down here. Mercy, he ain’t lookin’ good--”

“ _Getting a lock on your location. Tell me what is happening, McCree. I will be there as soon as I can."_

Hanzo looks awful--clothes and hair rumpled and dirty, blood and grime smeared across his face and neck. There’s a wound on his right temple crusted with dried blood. He’s breathing, but doesn’t stir as McCree looks him over and relays all of this information to Mercy over the comm.

“C’mon, Hanzo, wake up for me,” McCree murmurs, refusing to let himself fall as low as begging. With Mercy’s instructions over the comm and faintly shaking hands, he inspects the wound on Hanzo’s head (scabbed but clean, the bleeding long since stemmed) and counts his breaths (ten a minute, too slow, too shallow). Hanzo finally stirs as McCree’s pressing fingertips to the side of his neck, groaning weakly. His eyes flutter open, his head lolling in the vague direction of the person touching him.

“M’cree?” he slurs, blinking hard as he tries to focus on McCree’s face in front of him.

“Yeah, darlin’, I’m here,” McCree says. His voice shakes with relief. “You’re alright. We got ya.”

Hanzo inexplicably smiles at that. There’s something wrong about it: too sleepy, too soft. McCree’s mind immediately jumps to _drugged._ “Careful, careful,” he says when Hanzo slouches forward, his forehead thumping against McCree’s. “C’mon, stay awake now. We don’t have a lotta time here. Can you remember anything?”

Hanzo groans again. His hands find McCree’s shoulders, weakly grasping at his serape for support. “I do not . . .” he starts, then trails off. “I don’t know. I woke up here.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Mercy’s on her way but we can’t stay here and wait.” McCree closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, pushing away the remainder of his fear and grounding himself in the reality that Hanzo is here, alive.

“Okay,” he says. When he opens his eyes, he is startled to see Hanzo staring at him, a strange expression on his face: on anyone else, McCree might call it fondness.

McCree doesn’t let himself think about having that oddly affectionate expression directed at him. “We gotta go,” he says, throat tight. “How are you feeling? Can you move?”

Hanzo nods, forehead scraping against McCree’s. “Better,” he says roughly. “I am . . . glad to see you, Jesse.”

“I’m glad to see you too, darlin’, but we gotta go.”

Hanzo nods again, but he doesn't immediately move. As McCree is debating simply throwing Hanzo over his shoulder and bolting, Hanzo finally shifts, and Hanzo’s nose bumps clumsily against his. McCree thinks, at first, that it is the drunken movement of Hanzo trying to orient himself--until Hanzo tips forward and presses their lips together.

McCree freezes.

 _It’s an accident, h_ e thinks to himself. That line of reasoning goes right out the window when Hanzo sighs against his mouth, soft and content, and purses his lips against McCree's in an undeniably deliberate kiss. He doesn’t seem to care that McCree doesn’t kiss him back, that he’s too shocked to do anything but sit there while Hanzo sweetly kisses him as though that’s something they _do._

Hanzo smiles, awkwardly threads his fingers through McCree’s hair at his nape, drags his lips clumsily across McCree's in a smeared attempt at a second kiss. It’s clumsy and strange and _wrong,_ and finally McCree scrapes enough sense together to shove Hanzo back by his shoulders.

“Jesse?” Hanzo inquires, brow crinkling with concern. Despite the situation, McCree feels faintly guilty for putting that expression on Hanzo’s face.

McCree takes another deep breath, flexing his fingers where they grip Hanzo’s shoulders. “We gotta go,” he says. “That family of yours is gonna catch us if he hang out much longer.”

That, finally, seems to instill in Hanzo the appropriate sense of concern. The bizarre kiss apparently already forgotten, he leans heavily into McCree as he tries to put his feet underneath him. McCree moves to Hanzo’s side, dragging Hanzo’s arm across his shoulders to support him, and begins the trek back out of the warehouse.

They’re supposed to be running for safety, but McCree can’t perversely stop thinking of the warm weight of Hanzo against him.

 

\--

 

Hanzo had definitely been drugged, Mercy confirms for him later on the shuttle back, and apparently whatever they gave him could have sedated a horse. Probably had to, McCree thinks wryly--given an ounce of awareness, Hanzo probably would have killed everyone in that warehouse on his own.

Even though he knows better, he doesn’t mention the kiss to Mercy. He feels fine, and if he managed to get dosed when Hanzo kissed him, well, he’ll just have to hope it was diluted enough by that time. Still, the guilt that curdles in his gut nauseates him enough that she asks if he's alright, and looks concerned when he waves her off.

He sits by the cot where Hanzo lay in the back of the shuttle on the ride back, trying not to think about the the feeling of Hanzo’s mouth on his or the naked affection that he had seen on his face, and wondering how much, if any of it, could have been real.


	2. Chapter 2

“I think I kissed McCree.”

Genji drops the fry he was about to eat. It bounces off his knee and grazes the edge of Hanzo’s bed, staining the clean white linens with ketchup. It looks far more grisly than it ought to.

“You _what,"_   he says, and before Hanzo can even think of an answer, adds, “What do you mean you _think_ you kissed him? That is very much an ‘it happened or it didn’t’ kind of thing.”

Hanzo covers his mouth with his hand, letting out a long, slow breath from his nose. He already regrets saying this to Genji, but if he could not confide in his own brother about the matter, then who could he?

Granted, he had not chosen to confide so much as Genji has spent the afternoon pestering him in the med bay, turning what was supposed to be Hanzo’s day of rest into an interrogation session about what happened when he was kidnapped, what the family wanted, and why he was “brooding even worse than usual.”

“I was drugged,” he eventually says, dropping his hand back down onto the starchy bedspread. “My memories of those two days are poor. I only remember parts, and Dr. Ziegler says some of those memories may not even be accurate because of the drug.”

It’s only partially a lie. Hanzo’s memories of the last few days are patchy at best, but his recollection of kissing McCree was startlingly clear. Whether it was true memory or merely fragments that his mind had taken the liberty of putting together, he had no way of knowing, but the end result was the same: a crystal-clear recollection of kissing McCree without any warning or even invitation, of McCree’s lips soft and shocked still underneath his, of sliding his fingers into McCree’s hair and trying to take more still despite none of it being offered to him in the first place. 

And, worst of all, the memory of McCree's horrified face as he shoved Hanzo back.

It’s not strictly his fault, he knows--the actions he took under the influence of a potent sedative weren’t entirely his own--but nonetheless, the guilt threatens to choke him. Guilt not only for having kissed McCree in the first place, but for remembering it well enough to want it again.

“Drugged or not, I doubt you could make something like that up.” Genji sets his plate on Hanzo’s bedside table, as though the space belonged to him--as he always did, Hanzo thinks dryly--and leans forward in sudden intrigue. “Oh my god. That must be why McCree was acting so strange on the way back--you--”

“ _Genji."_

Genji, mercifully, does stifle his shocked delight into a contained smile. “Okay,” he says. “So what are you going to do about it? McCree has not said anything to me about it, but believe me when I say he has not forgotten.”

Hanzo sighs. “I do not know.”

“You realize you need to talk to him either way.”

“Of course I realize that. But if you would like to explain to me how to handle the fallout from being drugged by your family and then forcing yourself upon a coworker, I will happily listen.”

Genji snorts. “I don’t know, either. But I am not sure you should ignore it, either.” He reaches back over to his plate for another fry, examines it for a moment, and adds in a too-casual tone, “Besides, with the way you have been pining, I am not sure you will last much longer without bursting into flame when you see him--”

Hanzo smacks the fry out of his hand. Genji foregoes his teasing to mourn his fallen meal, but the thought of McCree remain in the back of his mind.

It has not slipped his notice that though most of the team has dropped by today, McCree was not among them.

 

\--

 

Hanzo is out of the medbay at the end of the first day, and he gives himself the evening to try to decide how to approach McCree, but the effort was wasted in the end. The next few days are strained.

McCree doesn’t try to avoid him, but he might as well--every interaction between them is stilted and distant, as though they were still the awkward strangers from Hanzo’s first weeks in Gibraltar. McCree rarely makes eye contact and his smiles are strained and brief, never the easy-going grins that Hanzo is accustomed to. He rarely allows them to be in the same room for more than couple of minutes alone, and seems uncomfortable still even when they are part of a group. Hanzo’s stomach sinks lower and colder with each excuse McCree makes to walk away.

He wonders if there is even a point in trying to talk to him, at times, but is quick to shake the thoughts away each time. Hanzo Shimada is not a coward.

Except, when Hanzo stays behind after the team dinner to wash up, and McCree approaches him in the empty kitchen, his confidence in that belief falters.

McCree crosses the kitchen with long, determined strides, a man on a mission. Addressing the sink full of sudsy water in front of him, Hanzo interrupts McCree before he can speak. “You want to talk about what happened when you rescued me.”

McCree stops up short and seems to deflate slightly, but he squares his shoulders and sets his jaw. “Yeah,” he says. “Been a bit curious about that, if you don’t mind me askin’.”

“I am only surprised you did not want to ask about it sooner.” It is only by sheer force of will that Hanzo keeps his voice even.

McCree nods. He fidgets a little, tapping his thumb against the edge of the counter. Hanzo rinses a plate and sets it on the rack beside the sink.

“I wanted to apologize,” McCree says.

This stops Hanzo up short. “Apologize?” he repeats.

“Uh. Well.” McCree scratches uncomfortably at his beard. Any bravado he had at the beginning of the conversation is long gone now. “I know you started it and all, but I feel like I should’ve made more of an effort to stop you, or somethin’. Feels real shitty lettin’ you kiss me when you were half out of your mind.”

Hanzo hunches his shoulders slightly in embarrassment. “You did not _let_ me,” he says, reaching for another plate in the sink. “I imagine it was more of a shock to you than anything else.”

“Well, maybe not, but that ain’t an excuse.”

“As I recall, you did not attempt to kiss me, nor did you do anything besides push me away.” Hanzo scrubs the plate with more force than strictly needed remove a streak of solidified grease. “In fact, I should be apologizing to you for having forced myself on you in the first place. I was not entirely aware of what I was doing or why, but nonetheless, I am sorry it happened.” And he is, but that does not change the fact that he wishes he could make it happen again. He swallows down the lump he feels forming in his throat.

“That shouldn’t have happened either way,” McCree agrees simply. Hanzo can’t stop himself from flinching in spite of himself.

“But,” McCree continues, and stops again. His jaw works as he seems to struggle to find the words. His eyes meet Hanzo’s. “That don’t mean I don’t want it to happen again, in, y’know, better circumstances.”

Hanzo freezes. His shock must show on his face, because McCree immediately flounders, taking a step backwards. “Shit, never mind,” he says, dragging his hat down to hide his face in shame. “That was--that wasn’t the time to ask about that. Probably already uncomfortable as hell and then I do that. I’m sorry. Shit.”

And Hanzo, suddenly, is tired--of half-answers, of guarded feelings, of seeing McCree doubt himself when what they both want is clearly within reach.

Heedless of what he has been doing, Hanzo reaches out with both hands, seizing McCree’s face between his wet palms. He drags him down, leaving no room for hesitation or misinterpretation, and crushes their lips together.

It’s an inelegant kiss, scarcely better than before: just a hard, borderline uncomfortable press of their lips, a desperate attempt to tell McCree he is wrong before it is too late. Dishwater drips down Hanzo’s wrists and suds smear across McCree’s beard and jaw, but neither notice.

McCree doesn’t kiss back at first, but nor does he push Hanzo away as he did before. He breathes in. Takes Hanzo by the shoulders. Squeezes once, holding for a long moment as though he fears Hanzo will fall out of his grip. Purses his lips against Hanzo’s, though neither of them move to soften the kiss.

Together: they relax at once as desperation bleeds into realization, breathe out twin sighs of relief, come apart again.  McCree’s grip loosens slightly, but his fingers are still curled tight around Hanzo’s shoulders.

Hanzo fixes McCree with a hard stare. There is no question. “You must understand,” he says softly in the space between them. A drop of dishwater rolls down his forearm, uncomfortable but ignored.

McCree takes another deep breath. “Okay,” he says. His hands fall to Hanzo’s ribs, then wrap around behind his back. “Okay. I hear ya.”


End file.
